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“Papa?”
“We must speak right away, Laura.” The wrinkles on his forehead deepened, and his mouth drew into a taut line.
“Are you well?”
“I am well enough,” he said, then paused, as if deliberating his words. “But Bertha isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
A shadow creased his weathered face. “Bertha had taken ill recently. I received a letter from the general today and…I’m afraid the worst has happened.”
His words ripped through me. The basket dropped, the berries spilling to my feet. “That… can’t be.”
“Her letters stopped coming, didn’t they?”
No. Impossible. Bertha was perfectly fine in her last letter, readying herself to attend a soiree of all things. To go from that to...
“I know how much you were looking forward to her visit–”
“Let me see the letter, please.” I needed to see the words, the proof etched on paper, or else I wouldn’t believe it.
“Laura,” he began, his voice low and strained, “the general’s letter... it’s, well, quite unsettling.”
“Please, let me see it,” I said again, my voice breaking.
My father handed me the letter, and I read it to myself:
My dear friend,
Words fail me as I write this, burdened by the heaviest grief imaginable. I have lost my darling daughter for as such I loved her. The illness that stole her from me took her swiftly, and during those final days, I was too consumed by her suffering to write to you. Now, the truth crashes into me like a rogue wave. How I was woefully uninformed of the danger she faced. She slipped from this world innocent, cradled in the hope of a beautiful afterlife. Thank God for that small mercy. My dear Bertha never suspected the cause of her pain, never knew the monstrosity behind her demise.
I devote the rest of my days to a single, burning purpose – to find and extinguish the source of this unimaginable misery. I am told I might achieve this righteous vengeance, but for now, the path before me is shrouded in darkness. I curse myself, my arrogance, my blindness, my stubborn refusal to see the truth–all too late now.
I cannot write more or talk for my mind is plagued with grief. When the raw edges of this wound dull, I plan to begin my investigation. It may lead me all the way to Vienna. Come autumn, two months hence, or perhaps sooner if I have the strength, I will come to you and Laura. Then, I will tell you all that I scarce dare put upon paper now.
Farewell, dear friend. Your prayers are the only solace I can find.
Reinhart Spielsdorf
“I still don’t understand,” I said, choking on my voice. “The general says Bertha fell ill and speaks of some... unspeakable monstrosity.”
“Grief can do that to a man,” my father said sympathetically, “chip away at his sanity, warp his logic. The good general simply can't accept Bertha's passing.” He took the letter back, his tone softening. "Laura, you’ve known the general since you were a child. He is a man of reason. This ramble of monstrosities is the sign of a broken mind." My father placed a hand on my shaking shoulder. "He will recover, in time. As will all of us.”
As will all of us.
Those words. Heavy, like a stone sinking through a quiet pond, rippling the fragile peace with each circle. Grief was a thief. It ransacked the most intimate corners of one’s life, stealing the warmth that had filled them, and replacing it with a hollowness that echoed with absence. I wanted to believe my father. That I would recover from the news of Bertha. But how did one mend a shattered heart?
The news of Bertha tasted like ashes on my tongue, a bitter aftertaste that lingered long after the initial shock had passed. My grief was a storm cloud, casting an inky shadow over my mood throughout the next few days. My governesses tried to coax me from the confines of my room, urging me to take a walk and breathe in some fresh air. Their attempts were unsuccessful. A shroud of sorrow draped itself around me, making the world duller somehow, drained of their usual color. Stepping outside would be no different.
I opened the window and threw out the wilting flowers I had picked for Bertha. They had lost their color too.
I didn’t know what to do with myself when my carefully constructed plans with Bertha had unraveled like a spool of thread. In bed, I listened to the rain lash against the windowpane, and the tears spilled, messy and uncontrollable, a cathartic release of the reservoir of sorrow that had collected throughout the day. I picked up the unsent letter to Bertha. Drops streamed down my cheeks onto the page, mirroring the trails of ink that bled from the words.
My letter felt like a lead weight in my hand, each sentence a future stolen. Our union lay in ashes, consumed by the flames of fate. I held the letter to the candlelight. And watched it burn too.
The edges curled and blackened like the decaying leaves of autumn. Hungrily, the fire devoured the written words and unspoken words I hadn’t had the chance to say, leaving behind wisps of smoke, dying embers, and regret.
Exhaustion finally began to pull at my eyelids. Sleep arrived, a heavy cloak pulling me deeper into the darkness. From it, a vision unfurled, vibrant and strange.
